


Soft Kisses On Warm Lips

by kloud



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Awkward Romance, Cute, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Might be a one-shot, Not Sure Where This Is Going To Go, Romantic Fluff, Slow Romance, honestly, or a series of shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kloud/pseuds/kloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Characters belong to <a href="http://freckledcupcakes.tumblr.com/">freckledcupcakes</a> [Ollie] and <a href="http://veggiebullshit.tumblr.com/">veggiebullshit</a> [Allan].</p><p>Thank you for the amazing characters!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweaters and Fluffy Things

Music drifted softly through the house, slow and rhythmic. The lyrics didn’t matter. It was gentle, warm, and seemed as if it belonged there, just like the walls that kept the house from falling apart. The first time he stepped inside, Allan realized that _yes,_ every single inch of this place was wholly Oliver. From the soft carpet, all the way to the Christmas decor. He heard a voice from the other side of the house. It was...

Singing. Allan stepped past the foyer, and paused. As the last-minute thought, he slipped off his shoes before padding quietly into the house. It was warm, too. Despite the harsh weather. And it smelled like Christmas cookies. Allan wasn’t entirely sure _how_ a house could smell specifically like _Christmas_ cookies, but Ollie managed it. The damn, cute, pastel small-fry.

“... _and I’ll be home for Christmas,”_ the voice made his feet come to a stop. And he forgot.

Allan forgot _everything._ From the moment of his birth, all the way up to _why_ he was in Oliver’s house, and  _why_ it was so damn important to come _now._ He even forgot his own damn name. He felt his heart  _ache_ and skip and race. His breath caught.

How could someone manage to be in every essence of anything _so fucking pure?_ Damn it. Why was he here again? It wasn’t as if he broke into Oliver’s house. He knocked, but there was no answer. The door was unlocked, and…

More singing _._ “ _...have snow and mistletoe._ ”

Eventually his feet drifted forward, towards the source of the song. Like a moth drawn to a flame--only to be burned. He neared a door, to… where? Allan didn’t know. He usually just stuck around Ollie’s kitchen, where he always found the damn… adorable, amazing bastard.

_“Christmas Eve’ll find me…”_

His hand pressed against the door, as if to push it open. But he froze. Opening it would mean an end to the song.

_“Where the love light gleams.”_

It was stupid, because, Allan has _heard_ Oliver sing before. The dude often left his windows open during the summer, and yeah. It was kinda easy to overhear it. But… _this._ It felt different.

The song was different. Maybe because….

_“I’ll be home for Christmas…”_

It felt like Oliver was singing _to_ someone, instead _just_ singing.

Never mind. That’s stupid. Really, _really_ stupid-

 _“If only in my…_ dreams _…_ ”

The song cut off, not entirely abruptly, but without flow. 

Allan realized he was creeping. He felt as if he were peering into something personal, but he hadn't meant to. There was a reason why he was here, and  _damn it,_ why couldn’t he remember why he was here? Why did he come?

Oh! It was _that!_ Clearing his throat, Allan pushed the door open. “Hey, Pinky! I need your-”

The door swung open to reveal a room that _screamed_ “Oliver”, everywhere. But that wasn’t important. The quilt on the bed looked warm, and handmade. And _huge_. But that wasn’t important either. There was a wardrobe pulled open with _countless_ sweaters spilling out of it onto the ground, and even a few on the bed.

None of it was important.

What _was_ important was Oliver turning around in shock, his cute lips parted. His face paling. And he was _naked._

Okay. Not naked, but-

“ _Allan!”_

His voice was filled with horror. All Allan could do was stare.

* * *

_No, no, no!_ “Allan!” Oliver yelped, _again._ He clutched a sweater in his hands, and moved it to cover his nether regions--not that he was _naked._ For God’s sake, he had another sweater on, but _no pants!_

Why was it _Allan_ _?_ Of all people? Why was he here, at all?

And why in the _world_ was he just _staring?_ “Allan!” Oliver barked again. “What are you _doing?”_

Allan blinked, like a monitor slowly waking up. His dark skin didn’t do much to hide the red that deepened in his cheeks. “I… I, uh…” He blinked again. “Why the _hell_ do you not have any pants on?”

There were so many things that Oliver wanted to do, and on top of that list it was: ‘Murder Allan’. And after that was: ‘Find a deep hole to bury oneself in.’

“Allan! For God’s sake, cheese and crackers! _Pickles_ _!_ Give me a moment to finish changing!” Oliver’s cheeks were so hot, and no doubt _red,_ that he was sure he would pass out from some sort of blood loss.

“I,” Allan’s voice cracked, and his brows lifted.

He wasn’t moving. Clenching his teeth, Oliver quickly scrambled across the room. In a quick flurry of motion, he gently pushed his slow-moving and _unexpected_ guest out of his room and slammed the door.

A weak breath left Oliver and he felt a phantom-like shame in his limbs. Almost like adrenaline. He mostly felt it in his hands, which shook when he peeled off his sweater and quickly pulled another one on--the one he was deciding on, which was light blue and had a pie on it. Without much thought, Oliver leaped into a pair of pants.

His brain wouldn’t allow him to process anything except for the fact that _wow, Allan walked in on him changing._ While standing in front of the mirror, like an idiot. After his pants were buckled, Oliver gave himself a moment to breathe.

It wasn’t that bad. Honestly? There’s been worse moments in his life. _Come on,_ Oliver gently patted his burning cheeks and squeezed his eyes shut. _Get a grip._

Too much of a coward, he couldn’t open the door and face his peeping tom. Instead, he weakly said, “Give me a moment to clean up!” There was no answer. Swallowing, Oliver turned and began to clean up his sweater mess.

 _Why_ did he have so many sweaters?

Cleaning up took too long, and not long enough. Once everything was cleaned up and put away, Oliver had no reason to stay in his room--no more excuses. Taking in a deep breath, Oliver stared down his door. It was a nice door. Maybe he should paint his room again. Or maybe redecorate. But that was a little hard to do in the holiday season-- _stop. You're stalling._ Oliver sighed. Feigning of confidence, he pushed his door open and stepped out to face what happened earlier.

Except Allan wasn’t there. Swallowing, Oliver stepped carefully down the hallway, too afraid to call out. For some reason. There had to be a reason. He couldn’t think of one.

It took only a few moments for Oliver to find his guest, and, well, he wasn’t too surprised to find what he did. Allan sat on the kitchen counter, in his usual spot, with four cups beside him--like he couldn’t decide what to drink--and jar of cookies in his lap. He chewed thoughtfully with cookie crumbs all over his Zelda t-shirt and-

“Oh, God! What happened to your face?” Oliver rushed across the room, biting his lower lip.

Allan’s red eyes landed on him and filled with confusion. For a moment. His face dawned, and he smiled, “ _That’s_ why I came here! I keep forgetting-”

Reaching up, Oliver grabbed his face to peer closely at it. There were scratch marks all over his face, like he stuck his head in a thorn bush. That… that actually sounded like something that Allan would do. “What happened to you?” Oliver said, more gently. His brows came together and he carefully reached up to wipe away some blood. The scratches on his face had scabbed over, and were at least a few hours old. Oliver would have to get a wet rag to clean up some of the dried drips...

It took Oliver a couple seconds to realize how _warm_ Allan’s face was under his fingers. His brows came together, just before his heart gave a jump. _Oh._ They… they were really close. Their noses were practically touching.

Allan cleared his throat. “Are these vegan?" His voice sounded like he was going through puberty, _again,_ all high and… _adorable._

That didn’t stop Oliver’s own cheeks from warming. Bouncing back a step, Oliver folded his hands behind him, and quickly said, “Y-Yes, the… the cookies in that jar are vegan.”

“How… how do you make them so good?” Allan said, almost weakly.

Swallowing, Oliver ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I… um, practice? Allan… did you need something?”

The blushing man seemed to be recovering. Allan let out a sigh and said, “Kinda, but before we get to that--who gets ready by putting their shirt on first?”

Oliver had to swallow a groan. His cheeks could probably fry eggs by now. “I… the pants have to match, right? I was deciding what sweater to wear, and… the pants have to match.” Why did they have to talk about _this?_ Oliver wanted to run back into his room and claim to be sick. Maybe he could fake his own death, change his name. Dye his hair to pastel _blue._ That certainly would throw people off his trail. 

Allan nodded and said, “You match your underwear to your sweater?”

Huffing, Oliver hit the red head’s shoulder and frowned. “I was _wearing_ underwear!”

“You were?” Allan raised his brows, and a slow smirk twitched his lips. “You wear underwear? Can I see? Do they have little frills on them? Or hearts? Are they _silk?_ Or lace? _Oh,_ see-through?”

“Not-” Oliver groaned. “ _Allan._ ”

“Sorry, not sorry,” a grin took hold of Allan’s lips. “Why were you changing in the middle of the day?”

“I wasn’t expecting _guests,”_ Oliver reminded him, pouting a little. “Why are we still discussing this? I just, I made a mess-” his guest’s brows shot up, “- _not_ the mess you’re thinking,” Oliver stammered, “and I took a shower, and… changed.”

“What sort of mess, then, if it wasn’t-” Allan sounded  _so_ smug.

Quickly, Oliver pressed his hands over the red head’s mouth, giving him a weak glare. “When I take away my hands, will you drop the subject?” The red-haired man squinted in thought. “Will you tell me why you’re here?” Allan seemed to consider it. “I won’t ask you why you have four cups out.”

Surprised, Allan nodded.

Cautiously, Oliver pulled away his hands, which revealed a smile. Allan lifted a mug and held it out for him. “I made hot chocolate. Not as well as you do, but here. I also have water and almond milk, because I wanted hot chocolate, but I was also thirsty for water, and... you said you wouldn’t ask. Anyhow, I ran into a duck.”

With the warm mug in his hands, Oliver smiled and said, “You’re here… because you ran into a duck?”

“Well, yes, sort of.” Allan bit his lower lip before saying, “I _rescued_ a duck. It was stuck, and I saved it. But I’m here because… I need help.”

Oliver waited, taking a slow drink of the hot chocolate. It tasted like the best hot chocolate he's ever had, but maybe his perception was a bit clouded, because  _he_ made it for him. _  
_

Blushing, Allan rubbed the back of his head. “The… the duck doesn’t like me, but, maybe it will like you? I had to fix its wing, so it associates me with that, and I’m probably too loud for it, whatever, and you-”

“You want me to take in a duck,” Oliver said slowly, “that you saved. Allan, I’m not sure-”

“Hear me out,” his eyes dropped to the cookie jar. “I’ll come by, and I’ll help out. It’s just until the duck’s better… I mean, this might not even really be a thing, because, the duck might not like you. But it’s _really_ hard not to like you, so… yeah.”

Those words didn’t mean anything. _Don’t you dare take that out of context, Ollie._ Taking another drink, Oliver watched the red head carefully. “I… I suppose I could try,” Oliver said, after he swallowed.

A relieved smile spread Allan’s lips and he said, “Great. I’ll go get it.” He slid off the counter, forcing Oliver to take a step back. “Oh! It’s a baby duck, by the way!”

Smiling to himself, Oliver shook his head as his guest haphazardly put the cookie jar on the counter and scrambled out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to check out [freckledcupcakes](http://freckledcupcakes.tumblr.com/) and [veggiebullshit](http://veggiebullshit.tumblr.com/)!!! Their blogs are awesome. Go. Right now.


	2. Drunk Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone drank too much, someone else is enjoying it, and some baby duck has a cute stuffed animal.
> 
> P.S. Thank you [freckledcupcakes](http://freckledcupcakes.tumblr.com/) for "sweetpea"!

Their hot breath mingled, twisting together. His skin felt hot, and sensitive. And tingly. Allan’s eyes were fanned by his lashes, his lips slightly parted. His breath smelled of eggnog, and his skin smelled like peppermint. Their lips brushed, and Oliver felt his heart clench in his chest before sprinting off. His stomach squeezed when Allan’s cold hand slid up underneath his sweater.

Shuttering a breath, Oliver let his head fall back as his back arched. Tomorrow he would claim that he was drunk, even if he only fell a light buzz. But… _this._ He wanted _this._

Lips pressed to his neck, and a cold hand slowly ran up his abdomen. Oliver’s heart beat in his throat, echoing in his mind. Another shuddering breath left him.

Allan’s teeth caught his neck.

Gasping, Oliver reached up to grasp to grab a fistful of red hair.

The American _growled._ Allan _growled._ It resonated somewhere inside of Oliver. His lips parted, and soon were caught by teeth, and, _oh, God._

_This._

Everything. From Allan’s weight pinning him to his couch, to the hand that ran across the natural curves of his chest, to his legs wrapped around Allan, to Allan’s smell, to _everything._

Maybe he had too much to drink, because his mind was doing crazy things, and Allan had lost coherent vocabulary a good forty minutes ago. There was some cheesy Christmas movie playing in the background, but Oliver’s mind was _far_ from family entertainment.

The redhead mumbled something that probably wasn’t English, or any language for that matter. His hand slid out from the sweater to tightly grasp Oliver’s hips. “Yer… foo...kin’.... gr… grey- _ate…_ ”

Oliver stared up at him through half-lidded eyes. “You’re drunk,” a smile spread his lips. “I _told_ you-”

“Shh…” Allan gave him a fierce kiss. “Donut….. t-tell... “ His hands yanked Oliver closer to him, their hips slamming together. Barely, Oliver swallowed a surprised whimper and clamped his mouth onto Allan’s while the American tried to speak.

He was going to regret this tomorrow.

“My… _me._ Dern’t tell me… what to… waht was I sayin’?” Allan mumbled against the kiss.

A smile pulled Oliver’s swollen lips. “I think you were saying I was right.”

“ _No…_ ” Allan growled and bit him again. “Fooh… fook that…”

The redhead’s hands delved towards the band of Oliver’s pants. Gasping, Oliver lost the ability to _see…_ his stomach slammed into his ribs and he arched his back.

Smugly, Allan laughed against his skin, and placed a few strategic kisses on his neck.

 _God…_ Oliver whimpered.

The kisses stopped. Allan pulled away and squinted at him. His mouth parted, seconds before he lunged to the side. He kicked Oliver in the jaw in an attempt to scramble away.

Pain shot through him as his head snapped to the side. The dark room blurred. Christmas lights on the tree, among some others, were just about the only lights in the room. They looked like blurry little stars.

He heard it.

Puking.

Fighting to gain his sight back, Oliver gingerly pressed a hand to his jaw and searched for--there. Allan hadn’t made it to the bathroom, but at least he didn’t puke on the carpet. “Sweetpea, are you okay?” _Wait, Sweatpea?_

_Yeah, sure. Sweetpea._

No answer. Not that Oliver was really expecting one. Allan gagged. Scrambling to his feet, Oliver rushed over to the redhead and put a hand on his back. “You drank too much, come on…”

“Foo…. yer… ceiling.”

“Don’t worry about it, Al, and that’s the floor.” Oliver gently wrapped Allan’s arm around his shoulder. His skin still felt hot, as if Allan had set him on fire. He kind of did. Swallowing discomfort, Oliver pulled the American off his feet and lead him towards the bathroom.

“Thas… thh… thhh…” Allan gave up trying to finish that sentence and focused on sticking his tongue between his teeth and blowing air.

Fighting a laugh, Oliver shook his head. “I’ll clean it up. Just… get it out of your system, alright? I should get you water, too…”

More noises. Oliver wondered if the redhead even knew they were moving. As soon as they reached the threshold of the bathroom, Allan lunged towards the toilet and barely had the seat up before he let out another round.

Glancing away, Oliver swallowed thickly and squeezed his eyes shut. That’s _one_ way to stop fun time.

He inwardly scorned himself and shook his head. “I’ll be right back, Sweetpea.”

“Fuggin greyyyy….” Allan sang into the toilet.

* * *

At some point last night, his head was pulled out of a toilet, and he was given some blankets. And water. Maybe some sort of pill. Allan couldn’t remember a fucking thing. Sure, he remembered getting _very_ touchy with Oliver, leaning on him, behind held by him…

Ollie’s warm hands mindlessly touching him. Always touching him. Caressing his cheek, holding his hand…

Stupid, cute stuff. Gentle stuff. After that, it’s gone. Nothing. He _barely_ remembers his head being in a toilet, and _barely_ remembers Oliver trying to get him to change shirts.

His eyes cracked open and he slowly sat up. By some force outside of this world, Allan actually _didn’t_ have a hangover. A miracle. Or maybe it hasn’t hit him yet. He was out in the living room, in front of the fireplace, with a blanket wrapped around his legs. His tongue felt dry and heavy. Bleary eyed, he searched for… ah, yes. Oliver was a saint.

Reaching over, his hand wrapped around a glass of water and he greedily sucked it down. He gulped every last drop, while trying to peer over the rim of the glass for Ollie and-

Allan nearly dropped the glass. The blanket… wasn’t a blanket. Well, there _was_ a blanket, but it was over Ollie, and his arms were wrapped around Allan’s thigh. An air bubble formed in Allan’s throat as he stared down at the freckled manchild. He was fast asleep.

And Allan didn’t have pants on.

That wasn’t necessarily surprising, seeing as Allan usually threw his clothes off in his sleep. At least he kept his shorts on. But _Ollie_ was surprising. He clutched onto Allan’s thigh like a child clutching to a teddy bear.

Hesitantly, Allan rested a hand on Ollie’s pink hair. It was soft--surprising, because, didn’t he dye it? He wondered why Oliver shared the floor with him, when he had a bed of his own. A comfy bed.

Oliver’s hot breath brushed across his skin.

Suddenly Allan wasn’t feeling so cuddly. His skin heated and he swallowed a lump in his throat. If Ollie woke up, this situation would turn very awkward, very fast. Like a man diffusing a bomb, Allan pried his thigh from the English man’s hold. He rolled away from the death trap and quickly bounced up onto his feet. The dimly lit room wasn’t too hard to move around.

His cheeks warmed when he saw a pile of clothes folded on the coffee table. He must have stripped sometime when Oliver was awake.

After getting dressed, brushing his teeth, and attempting to do something with his hair, he decided to go check on their little patient. Crouching in front of the cardboard box, he peered inside. The fluffy little thing was fast asleep, cuddling with a stuffed animal underneath the heat lamp. A light smile pulled Allan’s lips.

Ollie’s face when he saw the poor thing… Allan wished he had recorded it, or something.

And his  _squeal._ A sigh left Allan, which made the duck stir. He could _swear_ that thing glared at him before snuggling closer to the stuffed animal.

Of _course_ it immediately liked Oliver. What wouldn’t?

That pastel bastard has… a nice voice. Calming. Allan stared thoughtfully at the wall. A _really_ nice voice. He tried to conjure up the sound of Oliver’s voice when he sang, but instead, an image popped up.

The image of Oliver wearing nothing but a large sweater.

 _Shit._ Shaking his head, Allan peered down at the duck. It was fast asleep, unaware of his inappropriate thoughts. Sighing through his nose, Allan ran his fingers through his messy hair.

“Mm… Sweetpea?” A tired voice called behind him.

Caught off guard, Allan turned. He caught Oliver mid yawn. It looked as if he slept in his clothes, but he didn’t wear that yesterday. Yesterday was a pie sweater, this was a pink-colored turtleneck sweater. It… it looked really good on him.

Not as good as his outfit when he first saw him yesterday, though.

 _Hehe._ “Good mornin’,” Allan straightened up and smirked lightly at the sleepy shorty. “Don’t worry, our new pet is just _ducky._ ”

Oliver managed an unimpressed look. “I can see you’ve gotten your language skills back.” His pale cheeks colored, like someone putting a drop of ink into water. It spread and took over his freckles, camouflaging them. “U-Um…” He adjusted his sweater. Nervous fidgets. “Want breakfast?”

“Oh, um… sure.” Allan watched him curiously. “What’s on the menu?”

“Eggs-” He began, but quickly amended, “Um, toast? And…”

Smiling, Allan said, “Did… did I do something last night? OllieWollie?”

“No,” Oliver said quickly, and paused. His brows came together and he stared down at Allan. “What was that?”

Allan’s smile grew. “OllieWollie?”

The English man stared at him in wonder. “But... Ollie’s _already_ a nickname.”

Laughing, Allan barely managed to hold back a snort. Giving Oliver a daring smirk, Allan said, “Yeah? What about _Sweetpea?_ ”

“But I’m not calling you _AllyWally._ ” Oliver crossed his arms, his cheeks turning red all over again.

A very unattractive snort left Allan and he could have _cried_ from laughter. “Holy shit! _AllyWally_ and _OllieWollie!_ Please!”

“No! Allan, _no_.” The shorty groaned and turned on his heel. “Come on, I have to find something to feed you.”

Allan laughed under his breath and lazily dragged his feet as he just followed the pinky into the kitchen. Propping himself up on the kitchen counter, he watched Ollie shuffle to his fridge and peer inside. “We could make oatmeal waffles,” Allan offered.

Bright blue eyes peeked up at him. “ _We_?”

“Oh, well,” Allan shrugged. “You don’t have to have them with me-”

“No, you would actually _help?”_ A tiny, teasing smile lifted Oliver’s lips.

Face falling into a deadpan, Allan flipped a little bird for the shorty and slid off the counter. “Yeah, little bitch.”

The grin that took over Oliver’s face totally did _not_ make Allan’s heart forget how to beat. Nope. Totally not. He ignored the weird little quakes his stomach was doing and shoved Oliver aside to search for ingredients.

* * *

Oliver wished that they were sitting at the table. Not only because he was worried about getting foodstuffs on his furniture, but _also_ because of what  _almost_ happened. Something he sorta kinda really _wished_ happened. He hadn’t meant to be sitting so rigidly at this end of the couch.

Except he sat on this end last night. His heart skipped a few beats and he let out a breath, glancing up towards the TV. Allan kept switching channels, like some child with couldn’t concentrate on one task. Swallowing thickly, Oliver studied his profile.

His piercings did wonders when he kissed-

 _OllieWollie._ He thought sternly and forced his eyes down to his plate. The waffle was surprisingly really good. Surprising because Allan seemed really unsure of the ingredients he was putting into the mixing bowl.

It actually was endearing to watch him scramble across the kitchen with a yelp, _“Oh, I forgot-!”_ Smiling lightly, Oliver placed his mostly eaten plate on the coffee table.

“What did I do last night?”

Surprised, Oliver cast a curious glance up at Allan. His intense gaze watched Oliver, as if he were trying to peek into his mind. A blush deepened Oliver’s cheeks. Before he could say anything, Allan groaned.

“Shit! What did I do? Did I dance naked or something?” Allan’s cheeks reddened.

With a quick shake of his head, Oliver smiled and said, “No, you didn’t get naked… well, you complained about being too warm, and I needed to wash your clothes, so… b-but! You didn’t get _naked._ ”

“What did I do? OllieWollie, you’re _killing_ me,” Allan leaned towards him.

Swallowing, Oliver leaned back. His heart gave a shrill. “N-Nothing, Allan, we were both-”

Allan squinted at him. Then he gasped. In a second, he put his plate aside, and he was inspecting Oliver’s face. His cold fingers weren’t too gentle when they forced Oliver’s head to turn. Oliver felt his cheeks beginning to get crispy. “ _Shit!_ OllieWollie, the hell, what did I do? How did I not notice? What did I do?”

Oh. The bruise on his jaw. “It was on accident,” Oliver stammered, pulling away. “You were rushing away so you wouldn’t puke out here, and you managed to hit me, but it’s okay-”

Then Allan did the absolute worse thing.

He pulled down the collar of Oliver’s turtleneck. There was a _very_ strategic reason why Oliver wore _this_ sweater today. It had something to do with bite marks, and… dark colored marks. Oliver watched Allan’s face shift along with his thought process. At first he looked confused, as if wondering _what the hell are those strange shadows,_ and then he made the connection. _Ah, yes, hickeys. That’s what those things are._

Then his brows shot up.

 _Hickeys._ At least, that’s what Oliver _guessed_ he was thinking _._ It was almost comical to see those thoughts written so clearly on Allan’s face.

“Oh.” Allan said, his eyes widened and stared.

Oliver didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. His brain wouldn’t form any words, not that there really was a response to that. _Yeah, we almost did it on the couch, but then you puked. And I might have been taking advantage of you. Oh...oh God, I was taking advantage of you. I am such a terrible person._

“I am _so_ sorry,” Allan choked. He snapped his hand back, like he touched fire. “ _Fuck!_ Ollie, shit, oh, _fuck._ ”

“No!” Oliver’s hand snapped to take both of Allan’s hands in his own, and he squeezed them tightly. “No, Allan. It’s… it’s fine. We both weren’t at our best. Don’t apologise-”

“Oh, _shit,_ ” managing to pull a hand away from Oliver’s grasp, Allan held his head. “Ollie, you’re too nice, I am can’t-”

“Allan! Listen to me, I was more than willing to go along wi-”

 _Wait._ Oliver’s mouth slammed shut.

Allan stared at him, his brows together in bewildered confusion, like Oliver had just confessed that he was a unicorn. “You… you _what?”_

At that moment, Oliver really wished he was a unicorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Remember to check out [freckledcupcakes](http://freckledcupcakes.tumblr.com/) and [veggiebullshit](http://veggiebullshit.tumblr.com/)!


	3. That Right There, That's a Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's _batter_.
> 
> Thank you [thickredsyrup](http://thickredsyrup.tumblr.com/) for letting me add in your character!

There’s this thing about short people. They are wickedly fast. Like little rabbits that suddenly shoot away from an unexpected noise. Or confession. Like a pastel-pink rabbit. In a second, the space that Oliver occupied was empty. There was a flurry of pink, and then _poof._ Nothing. Blindly, Allan lunged. His fingers brushed the hem of pants and fuzzy socks. Like water slipping through his fingers. Gravity threw his body down onto the floor. _Fuck, that hurt!_ “Damn it!” Allan shouted. “OllieWollie! Get your tiny pink ass back here!”

Like a skipping record, his mind kept replaying: _“I was more than willing to go along wi-“_ It reminded Allan of a siren, warning citizens about a natural disaster. _Allan_ was a natural disaster. His heart beat harder than heavy drums, and his stomach kept doing all these weird little flips. These were things he didn’t usually let himself think about. Because feelings were sticky, and difficult. Like goop. Big, black, yucky goop that stuck to everything-

A crash. Specifically, the crash of a body slamming to the ground. Oliver managed to trip on a power cord, ripping Christmas lights off the wall. A whimper trickled into the air.

Seeing his chance, Allan quickly shot up to his feet and pounced.

“ _Ooph!_ ” Ollie yelped, and immediately tried to scramble away.

Not that Allan was going to let that happen. Between the Christmas lights and his body weight, there was no way that little punk was going anywhere. “Let’s talk about this,” Allan said breathlessly.

“Oh, _God,_ Allan, no,” the little cutie hid his face in his arms. For now, he seemed as if he had no intention of getting away.

With a small smirk, Allan straddled the small man, and planted himself on the man’s bum. And. Wow. It was a _really_ nice bum. Comfortable, plush, and-

“Oh, my… _God._ ” Pinky squeaked. “Allan, _no._ ”

“What happened to ‘sweetpea’? I was kinda gettin’ attached to that, too,” Allan said, trying to sounded hurt. He even pouted. Not that OllieWollie could really see.

The small man groaned and shook his head. That groan hit Allan in places that Oliver has _never_ touched.

Wait. Places that Allan doesn’t _remember_ lil’ O’ Ollie touching. _Hehe._ “So,” Allan said casually, as he lightly bounced up and down on Oliver’s plush bum.

“Allan-“ The small man revived. He wiggled, turned, and nearly threw Allan off of him. The little worm wiggled onto his back, and back-pedaled away from Allan. Struggling to gain his balance back, Allan haphazardly grabbed for anything but only met air. Damn little worm managed to get away.

_Don’t think of worms right now, Allan-_

“OllieWollie,” Allan sang, crawling forward.

A squeak left the adorable little shorty and he continued to back away from Allan until his back hit a wall. With a smirk, Allan scrambled forward and trapped the pink-haired man against wall by placing a hand on either side of his head. Both of them were breathing hard.

But not from anything fun. Unable to turn his smirk into a friendly smile, Allan said, “Let’s talk about this.”

“Let’s… n-not,” Oliver squeaked, and he reached up to hide his face in his hands. “Please, Allan…?”

“From my understanding,” Allan began, “You got me drunk to take advantage of me-“

The fucking weasel startled and slammed their heads together—pain blanked Allan’s vision and he swore heavily, pulling away to shield his head from more assaults. In a whiney voice, the pink-haired ass whimpered, “ _I’m so sorry!_ No! No, Allan, _you_ got yourself drunk! I told you-“

“ _Shh,_ ” leaning back, Allan peaked through his fingers and shook his head. “I was _kidding._ Holy shit. Calm down. I know you wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m sorry,” the cutie stammered, “I am _so_ sorry, I-I… I am… I-“

“Holy. _Shit!”_ With a small smile, Allan grabbed small, white hands. They were slightly clammy. Not allowing himself to think about how absolutely adorable that was, Allan stared into bright blue eyes. “Calm down, okay? I am actually extremely _honored_ that you wanted to sleep with me when you’re drunk.”

“ _Wanted? When_ I’m drunk?”

All breath left Allan and he just kinda stared. A numb feeling, like a blanket, fell over him, and he blinked. _Oh._ “You… it wasn’t just… a drunk sexcapade?” The gears in his brain weren’t turning. He couldn’t process this information. As in… _sober_ Oliver… wanted to _sleep_ with him? Was that real? Was that _possible?_

“I-I… I wasn’t drunk, Allan,” Ollie said in a small voice. He seemed vulnerable. “Maybe a little buzzed-“

“You _still_ want… you-“ Allan stammered, sounding like an idiot. Or a virgin idiot. And he _definitely_ wasn’t either of those. Okay, one of those. “I… I…”

Very quietly, Oliver said, “I’m… very selfish.” Cautiously, his eyes lifted to Allan’s.

“Please, feel free to be selfish-“ Allan started to say. But he didn’t finish. Hot breath brushed against his lips, a second before Oliver pressed their lips together. His stomach slammed against his ribs. With shaky hands, Allan reached up to clasp the pinky’s head. They moved their mouths slowly, discovering another. Allan’s blood began to simmer. Deeply, he breathed in through his nose and managed to murmur, “ _Please_ continue to be fucking selfish.”

A small piece of laughter left Oliver, who pulled away to kiss his nose. They stared at another with small, little smiles. Gently, Allan reached forward and began to unwrap some of the Christmas lights. They were still on—which was a bit dangerous, but the different colors did wonderful things to Oliver’s eyes.

Something made Oliver hesitate. His eyes fell and he took in a small breath. “Allan… there’s something I’ve… wanted to tell you. Something that I’ve been too scared to say.” The lights made his eyes shimmer when he glanced back up at Allan.

Heart clenching in surprise, Allan managed, “Yeah?”

Pale cheeks turned bright red, and Oliver swallowed. “Um…” He reached up, moving to sort Allan’s hair. It was still messy from this morning. Allan leaned closer to him, both for the touch and to hear him better. He was close enough to count freckles, as camouflaged as they were under Oliver’s blush. Reaching up a hand, Allan cupped the pinky’s face and gently wiped his thumb over his lower lip.

A sharp breath cut through Oliver’s partly opened lips. “I…” He swallowed. Again. Allan felt his stomach begin to tighten and do flips. “There…. There was a knock at the door.”

“There….” Allan repeated, his brows coming together. “There _what?_ ”

“There was a knock at the door. Excuse me, Sweetpea,” the cute sucker struggled to get up. The Christmas lights were still tangled around him. Clearing his throat, Oliver looked over Allan’s shoulder and called, “Come in!” His eyes fell on Allan, “Do you mind helping me?”

“What? Get rid of that _badly timed_ guest?” Allan raised a brow, feeling a bit irritated. The English man was using this as an excuse to not finish. And it was _killing_ him.

“No,” the pink ass grumbled, and slid Allan away from him by pushing him with his foot. With a sigh, he began to untangle himself.

The front door opened and quietly clicked shut. Slowly, Allan rose to his feet and turned to face the new guest. His eyes caught a head of wet hair, and a familiar face that seemed less than pleased. “It’s pouring out there,” muttered the blonde, and his eyes searched the area till they landed on Allan. After a flicker of surprise, displeasure pulled on the blonde’s face. “What are you doing to Dad?”

“Bondage. With Christmas lights,” Allan smirked lightly.

“Sounds painful,” the blonde muttered, dryly.

Behind him, Allan heard Oliver shuffle to his feet. “Hello, Matthieu! It’s good to see you,” the shorty chirped and smiled brightly towards the new _timely_ visitor. “What can I do for you today?”

Matt-ass opened his mouth to answer, except, nothing came out. His eyes dropped, and his eyebrows rose. Slowly, Matt-ass shifted from one foot to the other. “What…? I… I don’t want to know why there’s a stain on your pants. Never mind.”

“ _What_?” Both the pinky and Allan exclaimed, about at the same time. Immediately, Allan’s eyes fell to Oliver’s crotch—and wow. Yeah. That. That certainly was a crotch. “Oh, oh, _this,_ ” Ollie stammered, and Allan didn’t need to look to know that there was a nice, red blush on the pinky’s cheeks. “It’s batter! W-We made oatmeal waffles-“

“I said I _don’t_ want to know,” the Canadian murmured, shaking his head.

“So,” Allan said slowly, a smile pulling his lips, “At what point did I make you-“

Oliver shot him a look that was a cross between a glare and a quiet plea for help, “I did _not!_ Stop! It’s, it’s _batter!_ ” He whined and held his face in his hands. “You can _smell_ it! It’s batter!”

“Smell it? Is that a request to get on my knees for you?” Allan couldn’t help himself, a grin spreading his lips.

“Please. Stop.” Matti muttered.

“I-I am going to go change,” Oliver stammered, “U-Unless you need something right now?”

“Go,” Matti shooed him with his hands, and shook his head. “I don’t really want to think right now.”

“You can think?” Allan raised his brows, and clapped slowly. The shorty lightly hit the back of Allan’s head before he scrambled away. It wasn’t until Matti’s eyes slid to his and bore into him that Allan realized they were alone. He stopped clapping. “Um. Yo.” With a tight swallow, Allan glanced over his shoulder. Yeah. They were alone. He gave Matti a cautious glance.

Except, the shady Canadian wasn’t there.

Allan’s heart dropped to the floor.

“Why does Dad have a chicken?” The voice sounded from the corner of the room—specifically the corner where a certain cardboard box was. A wave of urgency washed through Allan and he quickly scampered over to the box and protectively stood beside it.

“That’s _not_ a chicken. That’s a duck.” Allan crossed his arms and stared down at Matti, who crouched beside the box.

“Is he raising the chick for Christmas dinner?” Matti glanced up at him.

“ _No!”_ Allan almost gagged. “No! He’s helping the _duck_ recover.”

“So… he can eat it?”

If Allan was only ever allowed to freely strangle one person in his entire existence, he _might_ choose Matti. “No, Matt, _no._ As in, _never._ Get away from the _duck._ ” With his foot, Allan tried to push the stupid Canadian away from the box. “Leave the _duck_ alone.”

Thankfully, Matti wiggled away from the poor, fluffy thing. He was quiet for a bit, before he glanced up at Allan and asked, “Does it _taste_ like chicken?”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” growling, Allan was tempted to kick the damn jackass in the face. Except last time he purposely hurt someone, he was kicked out on his ass. And he didn’t want to repeat that. Especially since _someone_ was about to confess something. His heart sprinted in his chest, and a hollow ache began to build underneath his lungs. It… it would be nice, to be able to hold someone’s hand again.

His fingers twitched. Oliver’s hands were small in his. They probably fit perfectly. Hands sorta go together that way. It would be great to have something more than mindless sex. But… what if Oliver’s feelings didn’t go past lust?

A chill ran down Allan’s spine. In the few seconds of him spacing off, that fucking blonde ran off somewhere. “Tch,” Allan peeked into the cardboard box. Relief eased his tight muscles. The duck was still cuddling with the stuffed animal, and glaring up at him. Of course.

His eyes flickered up, and he couldn’t help but feel like he were in a horror movie. The Christmas lights were still sprawled out on the floor, but otherwise undisturbed—an image of Ollie wrapped in nothing but those lights flashed through Allan’s mind. He swooned. A second later, he schooled his expression and sternly thought, _Must. Find. Blondie._ Fuck. He wished he could just shove the blonde out the door, and return to what he and Oliver were talking about.

To what Ollie might have said.

What the _hell_ was that pinky too scared to say? Allan’s heart beat uncomfortably loud in his chest. Quietly, he padded across the hardwood floor and peeked into the kitchen. Instantly, relief rushed through him like cool water. The blonde was going through Oliver’s fridge with a few cookies in hand. Crossing his arms, Allan leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “Yo. Blondie. Why ya here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Matti muttered through a mouth full of cookies. Glowering, Allan restrained himself from going over and pushing the damn Canadian into the fridge. No doubt he was probably used to the cold. Might feel like home. “Why are _you_ here?” Matti paused his searching to give Allan a glance.

“The _duck,_ ” Allan jabbed his thumb behind him. “I am here to-“

A hand landed on the lower of his back, and he almost leaped out of his skin. Just barely, Allan managed to swallow any embarrassing noises, and he glanced behind him. Oliver stood with a mischievous crinkle in his eye. He wore an entirely new sweater. With a scarf. To hide the hickeys, and bite marks, no doubt. “Mm! Matti, can I make you anything?” The shorty passed by Allan.

The need to pinch Oliver’s ass was real. For an entire second. But Allan restrained himself. Instead, he decided to take in that plush roundness as the pink haired man fluttered over to the Canadian. The new pair of pants were deep in color, a purplish-red. And they were tight. _Mmph._ “Yo, OllieWollie. Again, with the new sweater?”

Oliver paused and glanced towards him, holding a kettle in one hand. “I _told_ you! The pants need to match the sweater.” With a huff, he turned back towards Matt-ass. How the heck was he so comfortable about Matti? Was he somehow blind to how creepy that guy was?

“You know, OllieWollie, do you have a special way to wash it?” Allan raised a brow.

“Wash… wash what?” The pink-haired man turned fully towards him.

“You know,” Allan made a hand motion, accompanied by a sound, and motioned towards his pants. “Your pants?”

Matti snorted and turned away from the two of them, muttering about something gross.

And Oliver finally shouted, “It was batter! It was _batter!!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out [freckledcupcakes](http://freckledcupcakes.tumblr.com/) [Ollie], [veggiebullshit](http://veggiebullshit.tumblr.com/) [Allan], [thickredsyrup](http://thickredsyrup.tumblr.com/) [Matti]! They're amazing blogs, with amazing muns behind them!


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